The X-Factor: Simon Cowell Thinks We're All Just Sheep

There’s no way to get around the redundancy of this piece. But can you blame me? The X-Factor is a blatant exercise in redundancy, making it a clear target for criticism. I’m just going to say what other reviews have pointed out, and in this way, I’ll become the repetitive, parroting, robot twit that Cowell wants us all to be.

Sure, we’ve been willing to stomach off-shoots and variations of the reality talent show brand ever since American Idol gave us a taste for sadism, and God-like powers over the hopes and dreams of sexless, God-fearing kids chasing stardom. There’s America’s Got Talent, So You Think You Can Dance, the Voice, etc. etc. But at least these shows have the common decency to give us fresh faces on the judges’ panel, or some tweaks and gimmicks that make us think we’re watching something mildly, or at best relatively, original. And while they are testimonies to our stupidity (subjectively speaking, here), they remain benign enough not to take advantage of our flickering mass intellect in too cynical a way.

Enter Simon Cowell, godfather of all things vanilla, prophet, star-maker, purveyor or bad hair, and his unflappable conviction that the television audience wants the same show over and over again, just with a different title and color scheme. What else sets The X-Factor apart from other talent shows, besides the substitution of Pepsi for Coke? For starters, the judges of The X Factor are looking for more than just a good voice or some sweet dance moves. No, they are looking for…ta da, the X factor, which I thought was a genetic mutation that resulted in aluminum (I think you mean adamantium – Editor) skeletons and mind control. But for judges of the show, the definition of the X factor is conveniently vague. It's like the Us Supreme Court's definition of porn – they just know it when they see it, leaving us to put our faith and trust into their culture-forging hands.

Secondly, the pool of unfound talent has a wider age range, 12-years and up, which the show oh-so-subtly spouts off, juxtaposing a brash adolescent Rachel Crow with incredibly elderly couple, Venita and Dan. Though I have a hard time believing any sane person would hand over a $5 million music contract to either of these contestants, the gesture is well intentioned, I guess.

Which brings me to another ‘unique’ quality of the show, its landmark prize. So what? Isn’t this inevitable for a show with this much pull? Sure, there is the contract for a Pepsi commercial and the Super Bowl spot. Which is nice, because being bombarded with Pepsi commercial montages during the breaks last night, had me believing that the soda drink is just as much a part of the American identity as George Washington’s wooden teeth. But is this the message that the hubba-bubba door prize is meant to convey, that money takes second chair to the privilege of being famous, and as influential as say, Mariah Carey?

Cowell and crew would have you believe otherwise. The contestants they roll out for auditions come complete with heartbreaking backstories that echo the popular sentiment of the nation. 13-year-old Crow lives with her family of six in a two-room apartment and just wants her own bathroom. Stacy Francis, mother of two, was in an abusive relationship and never got the chance to share her talent. The finale act, Chris Rene, is a recovering meth addict who wants to do right by his baby boy. I’m not saying any of these people should be accused of purposefully pulling on our heartstrings. What I am saying is that the producers of the show know full well what they’re doing. It’s obvious which contestants are going to get the nods. More obvious is how the show wants us to feel about its judges, the benevolent beings that they are.

But then again, the show is all about manipulating how we feel. Aside from insinuating who will and who won't get the chance to advance by the amount of screen time the contestants are given, the show displays a static balance between emotion, i.e. talented, and ridiculous. Just as with American Idol, X Factor has its humorous filler: a headstrong diva who won’t take no for an answer, the aforementioned old people, and lest we forget, the psychedelic nude spaceman, Geo (who is surely bound for YouTube superstardom). The point being, The X Factor is looking to take us through an emotional rollercoaster, the only problem is the audience can see every loop-de-loop before it arrives; the show’s musical score and its lighting, even the acts are predictable. But what is lacking is sheer meanness. Which is what makes any show like this enjoyable: sadistic voyeurism. Duh.

Ultimately, a show like The X Factor has its niche, but American Idol has already filled that niche, long ago and by the same grumpy Brit. No matter how many minor changes and gimmicks Cowell pins onto the format, there’s no getting away from the parallels. Even the host, if you want to call him that, Steve Jones looks remarkably like Ryan Seacrest. And if Cowell didn’t want to draw more attention to the similarities between the two shows, he shouldn’t have re-cast the droll Paula Abdul (though one of the best moments of the evening was a nauseated Abdul running away from Geo’s exposed little hippie). Bottom line: Go back to Idol, Cowell, and re-tool that show. Don’t take up any more valuable primetime network slots with this stuff. Either do that or be truthful; you crave money and attention. And someone to properly part your hair.